


run from me, darling

by adelheid



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Gun Violence, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-04-18
Packaged: 2020-01-16 00:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18509977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelheid/pseuds/adelheid
Summary: As a rule, he doesn't enjoy shooting women. But that's the job. (Assassin/Hitman AU)





	run from me, darling

**Author's Note:**

> (uh-oh. i shouldn't start something new. and yet. thanks for reading!)

The road to hell is not paved with good intentions. It’s paved with no intentions at all. Walking blindly, taking each step without any sort of compass, that is the path towards utter destruction.

He knows because he’s almost at the brimstone gates. 

 

The roof is not comfortable, but they’ve rarely been comfortable in his experience. Tormund would have made a joke about freezing his balls off, but it’s a relatively warm October evening, all things considered.

He’s checking the instructions again, sniper rifle resting against his arm. The solid weight is always reassuring. It’s not that he’s having any misgivings, but as a rule, he doesn’t enjoy shooting women. Maybe it has to do with some ancient code of honor his father upheld for most of his sorry life. But Jon always feels a twinge when he pulls the trigger. Which of course he does anyway.

Tonight won’t be any different. He feels better knowing the main target is a man. Lyn Corbray, one of Baelish’s covert associates. In public, he slanders and gainsays him, treating him like an enemy. In private, he is paid for various indelicate services. Accompanying him tonight is Alayne Stone, Littlefinger’s current twenty-something mistress. There’s been talk she is being used as a drug mule and messenger between guilty parties, but not much can be assessed about her degree of innocence. Jon is pretty sure no one can keep from being tainted in this business. She needs to be removed to clear out any witnesses of Corbray’s murder and to send a strong message to Baelish. Jon has grasped this much from his employers.

He grabs the binoculars. The window is still inky dark. They haven’t checked in yet.

Some folks hate the wait. They say it’s the worst part about the job. Jon tends to disagree. The only exciting part is the wait. The killing itself is perfunctory. He’s become pretty good at it, which means it offers few surprises. Sure, you’re always honing in your technique, but in the end, the most efficient assassin is the one who waits, shoots, leaves.

The waiting – yes, the waiting. It gives him time to think, to imagine different scenarios, to roll back time, like a film reel. He enjoys the fifteen minute-window before the kill when he watches the targets move lazily about the rooms, suspecting nothing, immensely confident in their own continued existence. There’s something a little heart-breaking about their belief that the glass cage can’t break, but as Mance Rayder taught him, there’s something poetic too.

Mance used to tell him it’s important to “smell the roses”.

“Take a whiff of your surroundings, Snow. Admire the moonlight, the city landscape. Make the most of your excursions.”

So he does.

He’s staring at the blinking lights on the docks in the distance when the hotel suite is suddenly bathed in amber.

Jon trains his body towards that warmth, lifts the sniper rifle to his eye and presses the cool metal to his cheek.

He sweeps the windowed living room in seconds. The tastefully minimalist furniture almost invites him to take a shot. It won’t stand in the way.

Lyn Corbray walks in, stumbling. He’s trying to remove his tie. He lands on the couch with a spastic movement.  He’s visibly drunk. Behind him is the girl. Alayne.

The brunette holds herself much better, clearly the sober party. She looks deceptively older in a low-cut black dress. Her dark locks have been slightly curled, but he can tell that’s not really her fashion. There’s something vaguely familiar about her, but he supposes that young attractive women all look the same when you have to put a bullet between their eyes.

Alayne steps out of her heels and bends down to rub at her ankle. Then she pads to the minibar. She’s graceful, but childish, almost like she’s tiptoeing in secret.

Is she going to get herself a much needed drink?

No.

She takes out two bottles of water. She brings one to Cobray and gently coaxes him to drink. The man tries to swat her hand away, but she’s insistent. He takes a few sips, water dribbling down his chin.

_Pathetic_ , Jon thinks, wrinkling his nose. He’ll be glad to remove this one from the landscape.

He frowns as he watches Alayne take off the man’s shoes and tie. She seems to be helping him lie down properly. It’s an undue kindness.

Jon wonders if Littlefinger’s gone soft, keeping a woman who is clearly more sentimental than worth the bother.

But no, he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing. Innocent-looking thing like her can go by unnoticed.

Well, not this time.

Jon grips the rifle more securely. He’s going to kill her first and then he’ll kill Corbray in his sleep – a mercy, really.

Alayne suddenly veers away from the couch. There’s something slightly ruffled in her movements, as if she’s seen something ugly.

_Oh._

Corbray is trying to take off his pants.

Jon grits his teeth. Maybe this idiot should go first.

Alayne walks towards one of the windows and opens it wide. She starts inhaling fresh night air hungrily.

He doesn't blame her. 

She’s a little closer now, her features more distinguishable on the scope.

Jon narrows his eye, prepares to pull the trigger. He’ll never get a better shot than this. Hell, there won’t even be that much broken glass.

Alayne opens her mouth to eat the air.

Jon stares into her naked face.

And freezes.

In a flash of memory, her dark hair turns a bright, flaming red. It doesn’t have to. He’d recognize those delicate, swanlike features, those sad, wintry eyes anywhere.

_Fuck._

_Shit._

_Fuck._

_Sansa._

He lowers the rifle and takes a deep breath.

He was just about to kill his sister.

Half-sister.

But still.

What the _hell_ is she doing here?

She should be in some quiet university town, swapping baking recipes with Jeyne Poole – they’d always planned to go to college together, as he remembers – studying to be a vet, surrounded by household pets, having a normal, boring life.

For a moment, the professional in him wonders, _could I still do it? Could I still kill her? It’s the job._

But Jon Snow knows he won’t, can’t.

Not that he’s still harboring any family feelings.

They were never close. In fact, they pretty much ignored each other throughout their young years, but he never resented her. Not too much anyway.

He realizes something worse. His sister is Littlefinger’s woman.

He chokes on the implication. Sansa pleasuring that man, taking off his shoes and tie. 

He makes a fist around the grip again. Maybe he should kill her, just to spare her.

No.

He can turn this many ways, but he won’t be able to kill her. Probably ever.

Which means he has to kill Corbray some other time too.

_Seven fucking hells._

And now what?

“Alayne” has shut the window. She’s walking towards her bedroom, running a hand through the disguise of dark hair.  

Jon steps back, lowers the rifle completely.

What is he going to do about it, about all of this?  He can’t just walk away.

If he doesn’t get the job done, someone else will.

For the first time in ages, he feels unmoored.

He was doing just _fine_ killing people without his bastard family getting in the way.

Maybe…maybe he can still fix this.

_How?_

There’s no window into “Alayne’s” room. He’s thankful for it.

One more look at her and he would lose his nerve completely. 

He feels as if it's been hours, but only a few minutes have passed. It feels as if a ghost walked over his yet unmade grave. 

Jon sits down, leans his head against the escarpment.  

One thing he _won't_ do is help her out of whatever mess she's gotten herself into. 

He can't risk it.

He _can't_. 

_Shit._


End file.
